


Aime-moi

by HuntressDaughter



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Confessions, French and Billy and Broadway, I can't make that last tag stop screaming I'm sorry, M/M, WHAT MORE COULD ANYONE WANT, pretty fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 02:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10401825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuntressDaughter/pseuds/HuntressDaughter
Summary: "Aime-moi,"Goodnight whispers, bracing himself for the backlash.Love me.Maybe it's a question, or maybe he's just begging.Four years after Appomattox, all Goodnight had was his Cajun blood and a head full of memories frombeforewith which he could ground himself. And then, four years after Appomattox, Goodnight visited a bar in Texas, and there was Billy Rocks.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [8OrangeMatilda8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8OrangeMatilda8/gifts).



> This is the result of listening to "Sunrise" from In the Heights after watching Mag7 again. Seriously, give it a listen and tell me it doesn't remind you of Goody and Billy.
> 
> For 8OrangeMatilda8 for being an awesome reviewer and inspiring me to keep going with my long-fic...which I keep procrastinating because of things like this.
> 
> Most of the French is translated by Goody and Billy (which I did with Google). But for the two lines that aren't translated:  
> J'aime-I love  
> Jamais je ne t'oublierai-I will never forget you

Four years Goodnight devoted to the Confederacy—four years and most of his hope of a peaceful life. He returned to Louisiana in the spring following Appomattox only to have that last little bit of hope dashed as well, so he buried it with everyone else he’d loved. He floated it down the little creek behind his once beautiful home. He set it to flames with the rest of his life.

Four years after Appomattox, all Goodnight had was his Cajun blood and a head full of memories from _before_ with which he could ground himself. He spent his days riding between towns after a bounty and his nights remembering a time that would never be again.

He wasn’t good at bounty hunting. When he’d been raised to be debonair and gracious, when he’d been taught to let lines of poetry and prose flow from his mouth as easily as a 'how do you do,' and even after he’d spent four years of his life behind the barrel of a rifle, he struggled with the idea of blood money. The war had taken more than he’d ever offered, but he still clung to a little scrap of decency, that maybe, just _maybe_ , he could still be better than what he’d been made into. He turned in whoever he’d caught, but he made note of the guilt that came with it because maybe he wasn’t completely gone.

And then, four years after Appomattox, Goodnight visited a bar in Texas, and there was Billy Rocks.

* * *

Usually it’s Billy who is up and being productive in the morning long before Goodnight can even wipe the crud from his eyes. Goodnight hadn’t slept, though, so it isn’t a challenge to clear his mind. He presses a single kiss to Billy’s bare shoulder and eases off the bed, congratulating himself when Billy doesn’t stir. Sleeping Billy makes for a pretty sight, Goodnight thinks, with his hair down from its knot and scattered over the pillow and his face completely relaxed.

Slipping on his britches, Goodnight smiles at Billy’s sleeping form, pulls his suspenders over his shoulders, and slips out the door onto the balcony of their room.

The West is beautiful, and though it is not home, Goodnight watches with endless wonder at the picture the sun makes, splaying reds and oranges across the sky, with fog rolling off the mountains they’ll pass through today. He’s so enraptured that he doesn’t notice the door opening and closing behind him, and he jumps when arms snake around his middle.

“Teach me more,” comes Billy’s deep, soft voice next to Goodnight’s ear, and then there’s the weight of Billy’s chin on his shoulder.

Lost in Billy’s unexpected, tender touch, Goodnight is quiet for a moment as he processes both whether he should step away from Billy’s very public display and the request he’d made. It had started out as a way to pass time, teaching each other their respective foreign languages, until Goodnight proved to be nothing short of a horror with Korean, tripping over the words with his heavy Southern tongue. Now it’s mostly Goodnight teaching Billy simple words in French—the only part of home he’s ever gained the courage to share.

He chooses to remain in Billy’s arms and honor his request. “ _Cheval_ ,” Goodnight says, testing to see what Billy remembers.

“Horse,” Billy answers almost immediately, pressing his face into Goodnight’s neck, and Goodnight grins both at the hot breath and that Billy remembered.

“ _Bouche_?”

Billy kisses Goodnight’s neck, then up to his jaw, and when Goodnight’s breath hitches, he feels rather than sees Billy’s smirk. Goodnight tries to turn his head to meet Billy, but the other man retreats, moving his kisses to Goodnight’s back, saying, “Mouth.”

“ _Toit_ ,” Goodnight tries out of spite, knowing Billy gets it mixed up with 'three.'

“Roof,” Billy answers without pause.

Goodnight frowns, having been almost certain he’d catch Billy, and glares at the foggy mountains, now set against a yellow sky. Hoping to confuse him, Goodnight asks, “Are you sure?”

“ _Absolument_ ,” Billy says, with a smile in his voice that Goodnight knows means he’s pleased with himself. The show-off.

But Goodnight smiles too. French and his Cajun blood are all he has left of home; even if Billy doesn’t miss Korea, he’s perfectly aware Goodnight misses Louisiana, and Goodnight can’t help the warmth that comes from Billy honoring that. “ _T_ _ristesse_?”

“Sadness.” Billy’s voice lowers, and he tightens his grip around Goodnight’s middle. ' _Tristesse'_ is a word they know well and one Billy is an expert at keeping at bay. “Try new ones.”

Fingers interlocking with Goodnight’s, Billy returns to nuzzling his neck, and Goodnight closes his eyes. He doesn’t really know what he and Billy are besides _illegal,_ yet he isn’t exactly complaining; after four years, he didn’t think he’d ever find anything close to this again, the comfort and safety Billy brings. They shouldn’t be doing this, not out on the balcony where anyone walking by could see, but frankly, Goodnight can’t care less if anyone walked by. He’s already seen Hell, and now he has Billy, and that’s all that matters.

“ _Aime-moi_ ,” Goodnight whispers, bracing himself for the backlash. Maybe it's a question, or maybe he's just begging.

Perfectly intelligent, Billy’s heard Goodnight’s ' _j’aime'_ s to whatever he was feeling particularly fond of at the moment and his singing of ' _jamais je ne t'oublierai'_ from overwhelmingly melancholy memories; if Billy puts any thought into the phrase, he’ll be able to figure it out. Billy pulls away, silent as he pieces together what it could mean, and Goodnight feels his stomach drop at the loosening of Billy’s grip. Goodnight holds his breath as Billy, eyebrows knitting together, fully removes his arms from around him while spinning Goodnight to face him. His mouth opening and closing twice, he finally murmurs, “Love me?”

Goodnight takes in Billy’s eyes, cautious, uncertain, but…is it hopeful? He takes in Billy’s eyes, his tense mouth slightly open in surprise and question, and sees Billy holding the exact same breath. He can’t bring himself to say a proper ‘I love you,’ not for all his flowery language and charm, but he does manage, “Perhaps I do.”

For exactly nine poundings of his heart, Goodnight waits for Billy to make a move: for him to push away and storm off, because they weren’t in love, that wasn’t what this was. But when Goodnight’s hands search for Billy in their sleep, when they share lingering smiles over trivialities, when Billy, spread out and writhing, his fingers tangled in Goodnight’s hair, sighs 'Goody' in that _tone_ —it can’t just be nothing.

On the tenth beat, the uncertainty diminishes in Billy’s eyes. “How do you say ‘kiss me?’”

" _Embrasse moi_ ,” Goodnight just manages to say before Billy has taken hold of his cheek and pulled him in, his lips cutting off Goodnight from saying anything else. Later Goodnight will probably be thankful Billy did this and didn’t give him a chance to mess it all up.

“I’ll stay," Billy murmurs against Goodnight's mouth.

“ _Je restari_ ,” Goodnight answers, trying to pull Billy back to him before what Billy is saying fully hits him. Of course, Billy shouldn’t be the one saying that. Goodnight always tries to ease his guilt by telling himself that he comes back and that he hasn’t left Billy for any length of time recently, but he’s done enough to put the fear there. Goodnight draws Billy closer, removing any space that was left between them, and lets his fingers rake through Billy’s loose hair, wondering how he could have ever left in the first place.

“ _Je restari_ ,” he repeats firmly.

And then they’ve lost themselves in a flurry of needy hands and begging mouths and jumbled French words. When they trade the sunrise and balcony for the dim hotel room, Goodnight has no idea, but he has Billy, and that’s what matters.

Four years after Appomattox, when Goodnight visited a bar in Texas, when he’d seen Hell and lived through it to have no one and nothing, he thought he was going after a bounty. But four years after Appomattox, Goodnight walked out of a bar with Billy Rocks.


End file.
